Two to Tango
by Sinister Tomato
Summary: The dress whirled around her, a pool of scarlet and lace. [Urahara x Yoruichi]


Disclaimer: Bleach belongs to Kubo Tite.

Spoilers: None.

A/N:I'm not good with titles...A one-shot. Takes place after the Arrancar arc and anything to do with Aizen, if Kubo were to continue with his streak of not killing anyone who isn't already dead since before the series. By the end of the series, this would be considered an criticism would be greatly appreciated.

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Some believed it was a miracle, some thought it was luck. Whatever the force, it obviously favored them enough to let them live just a bit longer. It was a cause for celebration for both Soul Society and living world.

Amongst the festivities and the alcohol, no one yet noticed the missing presences of two who played their own vital roles for the good fortune of both worlds. It was obvious to a select few that the two were not to be disturbed this night. Not that the pair could be found without a bit of poking around first.

The two missing parties celebrated their own private victory under the noses of the living. It wasn't the last place anyone would think of looking for them, but it wouldn't be the first on their minds. Many hadn't even thought such a far off foreign institution would exist in Karakura.

After all, foreign restaurants were hard to come by.

It was a place that was easy to ignore but just as easy to come by. It was almost something out of an old cheesy romance novel. A lovely little Italian establishment that served spaghetti to strays in the back of a narrow alleyway.

There were a few differences, however. The restaurant was in fact quite lovely and it was small, but it was Spanish. They served noodles when asked, but not to strays who could not pay.

Business was booming, meaning there were two or three more people occupying the tables than usual. The manager didn't have high expectations. He knew the drawbacks of opening a Spanish restaurant in the middle of a Japanese city. He wasn't in the business for the money.

The strangest of the new people was a couple who sat in a table in the corner next to the entrance. All they ordered was a bottle of wine and two glasses. The manager couldn't care less what they ordered. It was what they wore that caused him and most of his staff to stare. Especially at the woman.

His restaurant was not keen on forcing formal wear on it's patrons, and the two seemed to know without a doubt that they stuck out like a pair of sore thumbs, but did not care. Despite their choice of attire, the manager had never seen a more relaxed couple.

The woman's dress was striking in it's simplicity. There were no frivolous baubles or corsages adorning the fabric. The man was no different, seeming to have thrown on a suit without looking at it, which loosely fit his frame. His tie was undone, giving him an almost lazy look.

The manager's attention shifted to the blond man. He was waving a hand at the band, which consisted of gangly boys who barely had any experience with public performances. The manager hesitated, then walked to the table. Who was he to question the request of a customer?

"Ah," he began, unsure of how to phrase this in Japanese. "Uh…" He repeated this several more times while the blond man waited patiently and almost cheerfully. The woman sipped the last of her wine, ignoring the looming presence of the short manager behind her.

Finally, seeming to have decided that the language was beyond him, he spoke slowly in English, hoping the man was well educated in it. "What. Song. Would. You. Like. To. Be. Played.?" He was louder than he initially intended.

The woman snorted into her glass while the man raised an eyebrow, obviously amused. "The tango, please," he replied smoothly with a slightly slurred accent as though he had not just been spoken to like he was deaf and dumb. She snickered at his reply as she stood up and took his proffered hand.

The manager nodded, flushing with embarrassment, and motioned to the band to have their instruments tweaked and ready. He fervently hoped they wouldn't catastrophically blow the whole performance. It would be nice if they were simply bad.

The couple walked hand in hand to the center of the room. The violet-haired woman stayed in front the whole time, keeping her back to her companion even as their arms intertwined. The rest of the customers gradually stopped eating and conversing to watch the lone couple, craning their heads and swiveling in their stools to get a good look.

The music began.

The couple moved instantly, heel and sole stamping in unison on the hardwood floor with the first note, hands clasped and outstretched before them. He held a hand over her abdomen as their arms entwined like a chain link.

The thundering sound jolted the attention of the waitresses.

They stomped purposefully across the room, footsteps in sync with each note of the guitar. As the violin entered with it's first continuous series of notes, she deftly spun from the man, keeping hold of his hand. The dress whirled around her, a pool of scarlet and lace. Her hair flowed through the air in a dark violet wave and twisted around her tanned neck as she pivoted.

He pulled her back in another swirl of red, stepping backward as soon as she was pressed up against his body, and she followed him forward in suit. Their eyes were locked in an intense staring match before breaking it as he wrapped an arm around her waist and dipped. She arched her neck and back as far as he wished to bend.

It was becoming increasingly evident she was not modest when it came to her looks or flexibility, and she apparently took the opportunity to flaunt both when she could.

They now had the full attention of the busboys.

The band played flawlessly. At least, they expertly covered their faults. They were nervous, twitchy, and panicky, but the guitarist had yet to lose the pick through the strings and the violinist was not about to hit a disastrous flat note anytime soon. They felt compelled to play, even if their fingers bled from the effort. It was the performance of a lifetime.

The manager was dimly aware of the jingling of bells and the soft thudding of footsteps as the door opened and closed. The small crowd stayed in front of the entrance, feeling as though they were intruding on something. Then they looked at what everyone else was gawking at and gaped.

The pair on the dance floor did not seem to notice the new arrivals, too intent on the crescendo, the climax. She was twirling now, her vivid dress flowing around and spinning like a globe on it's stand. She stepped easily and elegantly out of her gyration and into her partner's waiting arms.

The chef removed his hat.

The two moved with graceful poise with the decrescendo, not stomping rhythmically as they did to begin with, but giving weight to their steps regardless. The pair locked arms as he slid behind her and she glided in front. They twisted back into the stance with which they began.

The last note of the guitar echoed throughout the restaurant, signifying the end.

The restaurant was drowned in the sounds of applause.

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A/N: Yes, it's strange and not plausible, but the Spanish theme in the current arc combined with the OVA ending just created a persistent plot bunny. I've never written a dance scene before now, and it turned out awkward, I think. Again, constructive criticism would be great.


End file.
